COMIC RELIEF: David Robertson reacts after giving up a three-run home run to Dayan Viciedo, the first batter he faced in the ninth, after Clay Rapada threw a sure double-play ball into center field. (Paul J. Bereswill)

There isn’t a closer in baseball worth his keep who doesn’t live for moments like these, when the game hangs in the balance and your heart races and adrenaline pumps and all eyes are on you and you embrace the reality that you and only you can either bail your team out or, in the immortal words of George Steinbrenner, spit the bit and snatch defeat from the jaws of victory for your teammates.

It can be the most exhilarating job in the world, and it can be the cruelest just as well.

Clay Rapada had fielded an easy ground ball off the bat of A.J. Pierzynski and thrown the ball wide right of Derek Jeter at second, and all of a sudden the White Sox, trailing 3-1 in the ninth, had runners at the corners, nobody out.

And here came Joe Girardi to take the ball from Rapada, and here came David Robertson from the bullpen to take it from Girardi.

Robertson versus Dayan Viciedo, best man wins.

Viciedo won.

Viciedo belted a batting practice 1-0 fastball into the left-field seats and all of a sudden, no one cared about Ivan Nova tipping his cap to Yankees fans on his eighth-inning walk to the dugout. No one cared about a pair of doubles from Alex Rodriguez and the RBI double from Robinson Cano. No one cared about the solo blast in the eighth by Mark Teixeira. No one cared that Jeter had tied Cal Ripken Jr. for 13th place with his 3,184th hit.

So this wasn’t a night when the Yankees missed Andy Pettitte or CC Sabathia.

It was a night when the Yankees, and most of all Girardi, missed Mariano Rivera.

A night when Girardi had planned on being cautious with Robertson and wound up throwing caution to the wind under duress.

Girardi had started the ninth inning with Cody Eppley, in part because he isn’t convinced Robertson is fully recovered from the strained left oblique, which had disabled him May 15, to overly tax him on back-to-back days.

Except it would have been nice if Girardi had communicated his concerns to Robertson.

“Feel absolutely fine,” Robertson said.

He meant physically, not emotionally.

Girardi turned to Robertson to clean up Rapada’s mess because he didn’t want to trot out Rafael Soriano for the fifth time in six days.

In a perfect world, Robertson would have preferred to start the ninth. This isn’t a perfect world. This isn’t Mariano Rivera’s world.

“Yeah I would prefer it, but I mean, I’ve been in situations before just like that and I’ve gotten out of them,” Robertson said. “Tonight just wasn’t one of those nights.”

No one felt worse than Robertson. Except Rapada.

Girardi had summoned Rapada, a 6-foot-5 southpaw, to match up against Pierzynski after Alex Rios had opened the ninth with a line single to left off Eppley.

It worked like a charm.

Until Rapada threw the damn ball into center field.

He was asked what goes on in the pit of his stomach when that happens.

“I mean, that’s a terrible feeling,” Rapada said. “It’s extra frustrating because I felt like I executed a great pitch. … It just feels like I really let the team down.”

It is a play he has made thousands of time in his 31-year-old life.

He sat helplessly in the dugout watching Viciedo circle the bases.

“I feel responsible because D-Ro shouldn’t have been in that situation,” he said. “It should be two outs.”

In the somber postgame clubhouse, Rapada was man enough to seek out Robertson.

“I told him it’s my fault, and he shouldn’t have been in that situation,” Rapada said. “As relievers, we all want to stick together … feel bad for Epp and I feel bad for D-Ro, because … I didn’t do my job tonight.”

I asked Rapada what Robertson said to him.

“He said it was his fault. … We all want to take responsibility but … I put him in a bad situation,” Rapada said.

Girardi, the bullpen master, ultimately put Robertson in a bad situation. Robertson was the one who threw the gopher ball. Woe is them. Or Mo is them.